


What the Water Gave Me

by welcometocabeswater



Series: A Series of Firsts [2]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: First time?, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Rain, St. Agnes, Steamy, and adam subsequently relieving him of his wet clothes, atmospheric weather, intense make out sessions, pynch - Freeform, ronan getting soaked in the rain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:43:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4636107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welcometocabeswater/pseuds/welcometocabeswater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam's tired from a long day at work and is far from thrilled about cycling home in a thunderstorm. Luckily, Ronan's come for him, utterly soaked from the rain...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Oncoming Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a headcanon request over on my tumblr blog for the word "rain." It kind of ran away from me, somehow...
> 
> All thanks and praise goes to Maggie Stiefvater, who is the rightful owner of this series. I am only so lucky to borrow her characters for a while. The title is taken from the Florence + the Machine song of the same name.

Adam’s arms are aching after the long hours he’s been working in the repair shop. His mind withers over the concept of homework waiting for him back at St. Agnes when what he really wants is the comfort of his own bed before his early morning job and school beckon.

Heavy rain starts to plink against the roof of the garage in pelts. It’s just his luck he cycled here in an attempt to save on gas. With a weary sigh, he rubs the oil off his hands with a dirty rag and tosses it aside. He’s not prepared to head out in this wretched weather, but he’s even less prepared to stay here for one more second. 

He slings his school bag over his shoulder and steals himself for the downpour awaiting him. His breath whooshes out of him in a relieved sigh, glad to finally see the back of the garage for one more day. But the onslaught of rain dampens his spirits once more. A single fat rain drop has already landed square against his forehead as he gazes up at the treacherous, dark sky.

He pulls the hood of his jacket up over his head and scans the parking lot for where he left his bike, locked up against a silver wrack. Mid-scan, his gaze catches on something else entirely.  
There, leaning casually up against the trunk of his BMW, is Ronan, arms crossed, and chin raised in challenge. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of battered jeans, holes ripped right through the knees, and a white muscle shirt, already soaked right through. 

A sluice of rainwater travels elegantly down the slope of his nose, while dense droplets gather across his sharp cheeks like imperfect freckles. Ronan’s eyes are more tumultuous than this stormy weather and at this very second, Adam fears he may drown.

He lets out a fortifying breath, hunches his bag more securely up against his shoulder and runs straight into the eye of the storm.


	2. The Downpour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronan drives Adam back to St. Agnes. Adam knows they're headed for something a little different than their usual shenanigans...

I.

“You’re soaking!” Adam splutters around a mouthful of rain pooled along his lips. 

“No shit, Sherlock!” Ronan grumbles back, his eyes flicking away from the droplets slicking Adam’s lips. He’s relaxed against the trunk of the car, but a small part of him, the part that still pretends, is combative, all raised fists and let me at ‘ems. He uses it as a shield to protect himself from judgement in case Adam gets the wrong idea. He has yet to figure out there is no wrong idea in Adam’s mind whatsoever, nor will there ever be. 

Ronan makes a gesture with his thumb toward the front of the BMW. “Get in, loser.” He straightens and begins to make moves toward the driver’s side, but something keeps him rooted to the spot in a stunted, revolving pivot, as if he’s waiting- hoping for something else.

Adam swallows and wonders whether they’re ready for something else. 

The sky crackles and splits with forks of lightning some miles away. The gentle, but relentless patter of the rain mingles with the crashing cymbals of thunder and the whistling reeds of the wind to form an orchestral overture for them: a natural rise in climax.

Adam’s gaze rises to the sky, but Ronan’s looking at him, fierce and electric all on his own. When the thunder ripples across the dark clouds once more, Adam knows he’s already been struck down.

By the power of Thor, Ronan Lynch was going to kill him.

II.

“You didn’t have to come,” Adam murmurs, safe and dry in the passenger’s seat, with his bike stowed away in the back of the BMW.

Ronan shrugs, a sensuous roll of his shoulders, all muscle and sinew. “And leave you here to drown? Not likely. Noah’s back at Monmouth building an arc.”

“I don’t wanna go back to Monmouth,” Adam mutters abruptly, his Henrietta accent slipping through so unexpectedly, Ronan swerves dangerously on the road.

“Planning to pray for the end of days?” he asks, and Adam can’t help but stare at the slightest tick of his mouth where he’s smirking beneath his feigned seriousness.

“Something like that,” he agrees, though his voice sounds less sure than he is deep down. He’s not sure what he’s planning, but it’s something.

Something else.

He swallows.

Ronan watches the bob of his throat as a red light glares back at them from the darkened street, pausing the world for this shared moment between them.

In the distance, lightning peels across the sky, a fork tongued serpent. The traffic light blinks a verdant glow on them Ronan nearly misses entirely had Adam not lurched him into action with an urgent shove to his arm.

Ronan’s still soaked through by the time they reach St. Agnes and climb the steps to Adam’s room. The white muscle shirt clings to him like a second skin. Adam hand reaches up to trace the jut of his shoulderblades through the damp fabric, twin mounts for wings long since clipped when Paradise fell. 

They’re not even through the doorway and Adam’s hands have a mind of their own, veering down to memorise every knob of his spine. He closes the door with a quiet snick. Ronan smells strongly of petrichor. He’s literally dripping with it, heady and everywhere. 

A stray raindrop steals its way along the nape of his neck. Adam closes the gap between them, so they press back to front, the bridge of his nose leaning in to follow the path of the wayward droplet. 

His mouth mimics open-mouthed kisses in the nook between Ronan’s neck and shoulder as his fingers continue their dance.

Ronan flinches at the cold touch of Adam’s hands on his bare skin beneath his shirt, but he welcomes their newfound attempts to peel off this unwanted flesh. It’s a mere shell he’s willing to discard now, laying his soft underbelly down before him like a sacrificial offering. 

“Ronan,” Adam breathes, a single whispered word that holds all the answers to the world within those five letters, two syllables. He breathes his name into his mouth when he turns and he can barely stand it. His hands are still snaked along Ronan’s spine and his shirt still pulled halfway up his armpits. 

Adam pulls away far enough to more accurately slam him up against the solid door concealing them from God’s eyes. He sings the body electric, his every limb, every synapse fired up in a blaze. Ronan’s eyes are molten as he falls into him.

They say lightning never strikes twice. Adam’s not certain he’d survive another jolt, when he has Ronan Lynch shirtless and soaking beneath his hands, wrists pulled taut overhead and pressed against the door under his grip.

Another rumble of thunder rolls in the distance. Tonight, they move mountains.

And here, wired intent beneath his roving hands like a jumper cable on a car battery and hot hot hot beneath his mouth, is something else. Something else entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for chapter 3 soon! :)


	3. The Shelter Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are 7 deadly sins in Ronan's kiss.

“Ronan,” Adam heaves his name, that heavy twofold syllable word that scrapes along his throat gone dry and gasps out of him like a runner’s breath. He inhales and exhales, a rapid one-two punch at his quickening heart rattling away in his chest. Ronan’s mouth is still halfway to chasing up their last kiss, sealing the space between them once more in zealous haste.

Adam presses a gentle hand against Ronan’s heart. It too make its bid for freedom from oppressive ribs, but Adam holds firm. He huffs another breath, tilting his head away. “Ronan,” he addresses him more clearly. His fine, gold-spun eyelashes flutter upward as blue meets blue, glance to glance, gaze to gaze. Adam searches for his words before that vertigo of falling headfirst into the stormy sea of Ronan’s eyes hits him again. He breathes.

One two.

“Do  you have…” but he can’t finish his sentence. What he asks for now hangs substantial between them, this thing that could make or break them in one fell swoop.

Ronan breathes, one two, nuzzling the tip of his nose against the crease of Adam’s own as he presses his forehead flush against him. “In my back pocket,” he murmurs by way of response to Adam’s half-unanswered question.

Adam’s heart kicks up its pace as the hand on Ronan’s lower back dips into denim, still damp from the rain. His fingers snag on their prize: a handful of small, square packages. The pad of his forefinger traces the curve indented in the paper where its contents press against it. He pulls one out between thumb and index and holds it aloft for both to see.

The lime green packaging stares back at him, almost accusatory for what he’s about to do with his erstwhile friend. His brow furrows as he catches the lettering emblazoned across it in bold, slick font.

“Dick 3?” he asks, the headiness of the moment already beginning to dissipate at the oddity of the detail. “Is there something you need to tell me or have you been dreaming up condoms for Gansey again?”

Ronan blinks, and he too, stares at the rubber in Adam’s hands as if seeing it for the first time. The tail of the 3 swooshes like a ski jumper, hidden beneath Adam’s thumb. He shakes his head. “Kavinsky.”

Adam really does pull away at this. “Well, that’s the least sexy thing I’ve ever heard you say…”

Ronan rolls his eyes, catching Adam by the wrist before he can turn away. “He dreamt them up.” His words are gentle, careful with him in that way that everyone is careful with Adam Parrish in the midst of a storm.

“Are these things safe?” Adam wonders earnestly, turning it between his fingers. “How do we know he didn’t lace these with itching powder or…”

“Adam,” Ronan sighs, reeling him back in before he changes his mind. “You’re overthinking it.” He leans in, presses his lips to the dip between his brows, and punctuates his statement with a kiss to that clever, overworked, beautiful mind of his.

A laugh chokes out of him as he shakes his head. Completely overthinking it. He takes a deep breath.

One.

 

 

Two.

Ronan’s hands cup his face, thumbs laying the groundwork for his latest site of worship along his jawline. Adam’s eyes flutter shut as he allows himself to be kissed. Ronan’s open and greedy with it, elbowing his way in and Adam’s already so full of him. The steady patter of rain against the roof and windows clear pathways in his mind, calmly engulfing his words

What are we doing

            What are we doing?

                        What are we doing?

All of it is washed away with the tumult, thoughts smudged upon glass until all that remains is a single two-letter word:

_We._

Gentle is Ronan’s watchword. He lays Adam down on his bed with a tenderness he only ever affords Chainsaw or Matthew. But his mouth speaks devilish, it’s own fork-tongued language against Adam’s lips. There are seven deadly sins in his kiss, each administered with devastating kindness. Here, sloth, slow and excruciating. Here, pride, a smile pulled taut against the sharp corners of his mouth as he possesses him, lips to jaw, a prize claimed. Here, wrath, a nipping bite to the throat, right at Adam’s jumping pulse point. Here, envy, fingers dancing over fabric keeping him at arm’s length, even with their close proximity. Here, greed, an admiration of _all of him_ , a tantalizing scene of freckled flesh beneath eager lips and palms. Here, lust, a sensuous dance of mouth and tongue and fingers navigating across the long plain of Adam’s body. And finally, gluttony, as he swallows him up, top full.

Under Ronan’s agonizingly careful administrations, Adam Parrish is lost, a ghost in his own home. One hand falls to the dome of Ronan’s head and he doesn’t so much feel his own body’s reactions and impulses as he _sees_ it, as if in the act of taking him, Ronan’s split his soul from its vessel, cleaved from everything earthly. He floats above the moment, impossibly hot with electrical impulse as thunder booms in the distance. The lightning that follows lights up this tiny room of his for a breath’s second, one two, before all falls dark and Adam plummets back down into himself again, a spiraling descent like an angel shot down with hunter’s bow. Cupid’s wings bend beneath arrow’s strain and he falls. And oh, how he is lost.


End file.
